Ciao ciao Cyberabad

With a flight booked for 7.30am I had to be up by about 1am. But any hope of getting as much sleep as possible was dashed when I was woken by two of my cousin's friends who had turned up late at night for what seemed to be a late night chat - and because one didn't want to go to his mother's house to lock the gate (Don't ask - I'm just relaying what I heard). My poor cousin had sat up with them all night and so had missed out on any sleep and now looked exhausted.

Dominic was escorting me to the airport, but when the taxi came his friends bundled in too, making more of a party atmosphere to my leaving. And so with Lata Mangeshkar screaming out Bollywood hits through a speaker right by my ears, we zoomed off into the night, with Secunderabad looking something like a deserted film set, all empty doorways and dusty roads. When it was this quiet without the headaches, I felt quite sad to leave it. But recently during the night, I had been woken several times by loud bangs and for the the first time ever in India, found myself wondering whether it was fireworks or gunfire. Of course with the wedding season in full swing it was fireworks, and yet I found myself worried at my own paranoia.

To wake up the boys we stopped briefly by a tea stand by the side of a slip road into what looked like a motorway. Hyderabad and Secunderabad are full of modern roads and constructions, and yet as though clinging on to the old ways, three women wearing modern safety jackets over their saris bent double as they swept the road with small, grass brooms; a pointless task, it seemed to me, as the Indian dust relentlessly takes over roads, homes and living creatures. As the women swept in the gloom, men huddled around the stall drinking chai and gossiping. I didn't want tea so stayed in the car, while remembering that feeling of drinking hot, sweet chai in the cool night air, with the sound of bottled gas burning as the chai walla makes fresh omlettes for the hungry hoards.

But soon we arrived at Hyderabad's airport, a place that goes by the name of Shamshabad, or Rajiv Gandhi International Airport, or Hyderabad Airport, or - as the stamp on my passport now shows - Cyberabad. And with British Airways taking its maiden flight from there, everything was to run like clockwork, with BA staff doing their utmost to make the experience a good one - even presenting each passenger with rock hard, Indian-made chocolates in a BA box bearing a celebratory picture of the Charminar. But it's the thought that counts. And everyone loves a freebie.

Yet while BA was doing its best, despite the modern glory of Cyberabad airport, the old 'shanti shanti' attitude was still rife. At passport control, two men sat at their posts looking as though they were having a nap. When I approached one he blanked me for several minutes and continued his rest; he didn't look at me and didn't say anything to me and so I stood confused, unsure as to whether I should go to another counter. Eventually he showed signs of life, sat up, stabbed a finger at his computer and took my passport. "Form," he grunted. I handed over my departure card. Without looking at me at all, or even checking to see whether I matched the mug shot photo he stamped my passport and handed it back without even glancing my way. So if I were someone else travelling on a stolen passport.... whoopee!

At the next stop - security - several people in uniform sat around chatting without it being clear which machines were in operation and whether anyone was actually working. Barrier tapes stretched across most of the gates so it was not even obvious where passengers were supposed to walk. Eventually a man or a woman - I couldn't tell which, either a plain girl or a pretty boy - looked at me and wordlessly made a waving hand gesture. "Sorry?" I said, unable to understand this form of communication. S/he made the gesture again. I said "sorry?" again. S/he waved his/her hand again, this time more irritated, before saying in a voice that implied that I was an idiot, "Put your bag on the machine" pointing to a machine that looked unmanned and switched off. I put my bags on and said to him/her in my most disapproving voice (which I have been told can be quite nasty), "Sorry, I didn't understand what (makes hand gesture) meant." S/he looked away. The mood I was in, I wished I could have been evil or at least sent him/her to the corner of the room to stand in shame.

Once through security I found myself in Shamshabad's glittering duty free emporium. But no sooner had I walked in then I was descended upon by at least half a dozen sales assistants who despite being in this plush, modern set-up, behaved no different to street hawkers; hassling me to look and buy. So whereas I actually needed some new sunglasses and wouldn't have minded looking at the cosmetics, I ended up refusing to look at anything and escaping as quickly as possible, rushing to hide out in the very comfortable Plaza Premium Lounge.* And so with very mixed feelings of sorrow, irritation, regret and relief it was goodbye to India. More than usual it has been a roller coaster ride, and this time with a real appreciation of my guardian angels.

* For an annual fee, travellers can purchase a priority pass, which entitles them to use lounges in airports around the world. If like me you travel in cattle class, it is well worth the expense. See www.prioritypass.com